


how could we be close again

by knifedad, paradoxpangolin



Series: i was made for loving you [1]
Category: Deca-Dence (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Romance, Fluff, Getting Back Together, M/M, Touch-Starved, Yall We Needed This, i think?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26297596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifedad/pseuds/knifedad, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxpangolin/pseuds/paradoxpangolin
Summary: “You can’t talk me out of this,” Kaburagi says, stone-faced."I know," says Minato."Then why," he says flatly. "Tell me what you're doing here, if it isn’t that.""I don’t know," says Minato simply. He sounds like he’s drowning. Minato always knows. "To…to see you again, I suppose."
Relationships: Kaburagi & Natsume (Deca-Dence), Kaburagi/Minato (Deca-Dence)
Series: i was made for loving you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944952
Comments: 44
Kudos: 139





	1. tomorrow is another day

**Author's Note:**

> aka The Sappiest Word Document In Existence
> 
> hi everyone it is astin paradoxpangolin riverpersonn. ive been losing my mind over this anime for a MONTH. gay robots. gay robots. how is this the first english fic in the tag??????????????????????????? (this is being written before episode 10 comes out!! so if theres anything in there that contradicts this i will , start gently crying)
> 
> thank you quincy for providing like 25-30% of words and throwing headcanons made of bricks at me

The light in the ceiling above Kaburagi’s head flickers. He sighs, under his breath, as it does the same thing within ten seconds. This house has always had faulty wiring. He’d almost forgotten about that.

_“You should really get that replaced,”_ Jill complains over the call, as it flickers again.

Kaburagi closes his eyes. _“I’ll get around to it.”_

_“You know if you’re just sitting in the dark it’s a lot harder to keep an eye on you.”_

_“If that’s all I’m doing, then you really don’t need to.”_

It's only been a couple days since he’d finally made his way home to Natsume. He’s been splitting his time between here and the facility, grappling the rankers into some semblance of readiness and drawing out maps for Natsume based on old, old terrain diagrams he couldn’t make himself delete. And he’s exhausted, to his core. Being around Natsume again is like staring into the sun. Overwhelming and reverent, his synthetic skin logging and cataloguing every touch of the living warmth he will never get used to. Overloading his sensors’ capacity so hard they flash warnings. 

And she’s a human, also, and a _growing_ one – Kaburagi forgets how young she is, really, and he begins to panic if he thinks on it for too long. All the things growing humans need, that he doesn’t know if she’s getting, that he scrambles to get for her himself. So he’d sent her home with strict instructions to sleep, even though she’d yelled something about drinking a coffee an hour ago and being totally prepared for an all-nighter. Which, had never been in the plan. Pipe’s gone with her. Probably for the best he’s gotten so attached to her, while Kaburagi was gone. She’ll be better able to take care of him.

Kaburagi is not used to planning. The attack on the Gadoll factory, once he’d asked Natsume on board, became unstoppable, like a cyclone in his mind. Steamrolling forward, no plan but _don’t stop._ Destroy the Gadoll, destroy the system. Blaze of glory. Get Natsume out safe, as well. His thinking ended there. Didn’t expect he’d have much use for planning ahead, anyway, afterwards. It had never been his forte.

Back when he cared about such things… _and, no, he can’t think about this._ Kaburagi grits his teeth against the sharp swooping pain in his chest. Back then, he had someone else to do the planning, and they’d understood each other so implicitly – 

_No._ No. _Stop. Stop right now._

It won’t help Natsume or the others to stay alive, moping about things he should have seen coming a long way off. Minato chose his side. Minato chose the side he was always going to choose. If Kaburagi can’t get his act together and stop thinking about him, the entire team is in danger.

They’re working against Minato now, Kaburagi has to anticipate that. And Kaburagi knows that if they go strategically head to head, this isn’t a fight that he can win. It's always been Minato up in the command box, climbing the ranks as fast an easy as he had. Back when it was nothing more than a race to the top, when their brushes of hands and stolen moments were exhilarating, giddy in their subterfuge. They reveled in their titles of Solid Quake's most promising young workers. Hadn't learned yet that when the system called, they would answer.

When his thoughts drift too dangerously close to what-ifs he slams that door closed. He's not so foolish as to let himself be dragged down into something that will never happen again. Frustrated, he forces himself to go back to the argument in the facility. He’d gotten so far ahead of himself, asked so open and _eager_ if Minato would come back to him. He can't be surprised it didn't work. This is so much more than pulling strings or saving avatars out of sentimentality, is what Kaburagi didn't realize when he'd begun to speak. This is defiance of the system. Asking Minato to _choose_. Kaburagi remembers the slam of Minato's fist against the concrete wall, the jolt that had stung through his circuits.

Waste of energy. Waste of time. He'd destroyed one of their few partial allies. It was thoughtless of him to risk something like hope again. Natsume - _incredible, wonderful Natsume_ \- uncovered things in him he'd forgotten he could feel, hope, delight, pure unfiltered rage. Another word - a Tanker word, for couples and friends, for families - he's still afraid to think. But this was... well, it was a reality check. He can't go thinking everyone will choose the people they care for over the system. It was pointless, really. Worse than pointless, now they're all in more danger because of it.

_"Kaburagi, you awake?"_ Jill asks, sounding distracted.

_"Mmh?"_ He's going back down old, familiar corridors of thought, well worn after a decade of use. He can't slip back into that. Not if he wants to protect Natsume worth a damn.

_"You went quiet for a bit,"_ says Jill. 

_"Just... thinking,"_ he says. 

_"If you're bored, please log out so I can delete your access record."_

_"In a little."_

A quick _clangclangclang_ on the door startles Kaburagi out of his thoughts. He's on his feet before he can think, his eyes narrowed. Natsume? Didn’t sound like her arm. But there isn't anyone else it could be.

_"Everything alright?"_ Jill asks, immediately on guard.

_“Think so,"_ Kaburagi replies. He goes to the door. _"Just give me a second."_

The figure outside startles, like it hadn’t expected the door to open. His eyes dart up from the floor in front of him to meet Kaburagi’s. It hits like a kick to his ribcage.

It's Minato. Minato, looking starkly out of place, clean and bright against the dirty Tanker buildings. Even more tired and stressed than usual. Minato, frozen. Like he didn't think he'd make it this far. 

Kaburagi almost shuts down. His system floods all at once, processing errors popping up and clouding his vision. He hears Jill snicker quietly and disconnect, but it feels like everything is a dozen, a hundred miles away. His throat goes dry, and his hand clenches tighter around the door. They stare at each other. They're at a standstill.

"Kabu..." Minato breaks the silence. He sounds relieved, and scared, and slightly reverent.

Kaburagi’s only option is to panic and do something stupid. So he slams the door.

Only Minato jolts forward and grabs the doorframe, panic consuming his face, before Kaburagi can slide it shut. _"Kaburagi,"_ he gasps, hands clutching the door, so Kaburagi can't close it without crushing his fingers. "Kabu, we need to talk."

Kaburagi’s heart is racing. Minato can't be here. It doesn't make any sense. The system sent him down for a reason. Was it the game police? So he could take Kaburagi into custody himself, make an example of him? It's not usually their style to send commanders, but if not then why...? Minato had made it clear enough he wasn't turning back.

"Why are you here, Minato?" Kaburagi says, careful and cold. He won't show his nerves. He won't show the wild flame of hope dancing in his core, despite everything.

Minato swallows, looks down, grimaces. Kaburagi recognizes how he looks when he's at a loss for words, and his heart twists with the familiarity. Now that Kaburagi hasn't shoved him out of his house immediately, Minato looks like he hasn't thought for anything to come next. “I wanted – I needed to talk to you," he tries again. "Please, Kabu."

Kaburagi narrows his eyes, as the reckless joy roars helplessly in his chest. "Did you bring anyone with you?"

"Of course not. I'm alone, I promise." Minato lifts his face and meets his eyes, tired and raw. He's telling the truth - he's never been able to lie to Kaburagi. "Can I...come in?"

Kaburagi breathes out, long and low. He can't stop it shivering in a way Minato must be able to hear. He never thought he would even get to _stand_ this close to Minato again.

But he hesitates too long. Minato looks away and makes to step back, smoothing his face to careful neutrality. "I understand, I shouldn't have come. I’m sorry. I'll-"

He's _leaving_ \- Kaburagi reaches out without thinking and takes Minato's sleeve and pulls him inside. He closes the door behind them. Minato watches him, eyes wide and wondering.

Kaburagi leans back against the doorframe, feeling shaky. Minato is. Here. In his home. Now.

And Minato’s… he looks like how Kaburagi feels. He has the distinct look of a man who didn’t think he’d get this far. Tense, poised to bolt. Staring guardedly at Kaburagi, like he doesn’t know whether he can believe his eyes. He looks haggard and artificial in the shitty, half dim fluorescents. Kaburagi feels a pain, sharp and jagged, right in his throat. 

They used to hold hands. Palms together, first. Marveling at how much larger Minato’s fingers curved over Kaburagi’s. Feeling the shifting of mechanics in Minato’s hand with every movement of his fingers. Every one of those shifts surprised him, back then. And Minato had folded his fingertips down and over Kaburagi’s short, stubby ones, and Kaburagi had curled his fingers into Minato’s palm, and Minato had grazed his fingertip points over the backs of Kaburagi’s fingers. Later, hands clasped together, interwoven. Minato’s long fingers reached down the back of Kaburagi’s hand almost to his wrist, and Kaburagi, fingers threaded in between, had squeezed the plane of Minato’s palm with every circuit he had. They would sit like that. Not talking, just grasping. Holding. Kaburagi had watched it, and believed he could feel it.

They had learned together, one step at a time, how to care for each other. Kaburagi wants to go the slight distance and take Minato’s hand, right now. He looks adrift. What would it feel like, a touch like that, in these avatars that flood every second with sensation? Would his processor break down? A kinder death than he’ll ever get, Minato holding onto him again.

Kaburagi turns away, towards the kitchen. “Do you want some milk?”

“Wh…?”

“Milk. It’s – good. Natsume. Likes it.”

“Uh… ah. No, I’m…” Minato trails off. Kaburagi refuses to face him, taking two cups out of a drawer. Not too dusty, yet. Shouldn’t be; he only bought them when Natsume kept coming around and whining about not having anything to drink out of. He’s not been gone that long. He takes the milk out of his fridge and pours it. The cups clack together. Plastic and plastic.

Tanker bodies are made for each other. It had taken him so long to get used to how easily their hands held other hands, the way they could pull each other close. How they could slot into each other’s arms, heads nestling into place against necks or under chins. The crooks of their elbows are made for throwing around each other’s shoulders. They touch each other’s hair, their arms, their faces. It means something to them, that fearsome Tanker word. It’s overpowering. 

When he and Minato wanted to be close, they had leaned forward and rested their faceplates against each other’s. Kaburagi could close his eyes, and listen to the hum of Minato’s cybernetics, and feel the tiny thread of static course between them. Or he could open them, and Minato’s face would be his entire field of view. Blocking out the edges, tuning out his UI, so it was like they were alone, and together, and the world. That must be the closest to what it feels like, he thinks. For them. That touch of plastic.

He doesn’t turn around when the cups are full. Kaburagi stands there, mind racing. Why would Minato be here? He was making peace with never seeing him again. Being some kind of empty for the remainder of his life, however short it may be. Why would Minato come to him? He gets a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Kaburagi turns around. Minato is sat delicately on his couch, looking like he’s afraid of breaking it if he moves any more. Kaburagi sets a cup in front of him and remains standing, grasping the cup so hard his knuckles go white.

They look at each other. It’s like Minato is his whole vision again.

“You can’t talk me out of this,” Kaburagi says, stone-faced.

"I know," says Minato.

That drains the fuel from Kaburagi’s tanks. He’d been ready to make this a fight, with everything he had. Steamroll on as Minato denied and fought and didn’t _understand_ what it was about Natsume that made her worth dying for. 

But Minato doesn’t sound angry. There’s no confrontation in his tone. It knocks Kaburagi off balance - Minato talks like a competition, sometimes, stubborn and impossible to convince he might be wrong. He’s always been quick to shut down in their fights. Without it, he sounds almost lost. Minato stares at his knees, like he can’t comprehend what he sees anywhere else. His head is bowed, his back a long line of tension. Kaburagi thinks about pressing his knuckles into the muscles along Minato’s spine.

"Then why," he says flatly. "Tell me what you're doing here, if it isn’t that."

"I don’t know," says Minato simply. He sounds like he’s drowning. Minato always knows. "To…to see you again, I suppose."

_Oh._

Kaburagi sinks down on the opposite side of the couch, leaving the milk on the table. His eyes are fixed to the top of Minato’s head, his ears full of glitching static. What can he _say_ to that?

_I wanted to see you too,_ the battered hopeful thing in his core scrapes at him. _I wanted to run to your quarters, after Mikey, and never come back out. I wanted to tell you everything about Natsume, how she names things that aren’t people, how she doesn't know the meaning of too much. I wanted to make you see how much she's like a cold wind in a dry, choking heat. I’ve always wanted to see you again._

“I didn't think I would," Kaburagi says, trying to keep his tone light. Minato's head shifts. He's always been able to read Kaburagi perfectly. "After a few days ago, I mean. I told you I would get out of your hair."

“That was the point, I guess. I didn’t think so either.” Minato sounds tinny and garbled. His hand twitches, and then he clenches it into a fist. “But, Kabu, I know you understand how much danger you’re in. You have to know. There’s no way you can come out of this when you start.” He looks back up to Kaburagi’s face. “This is it. This would be the end.”

Cold metal balls up in Kaburagi’s stomach. _“Stop._ I told you already, it won’t work.”

“I _know,”_ Minato repeats. “I’m not – that isn’t what I meant.” His mouth clicks shut and he goes silent, like he has so much more to say. 

“What is it, then,” Kaburagi asks. His stomach uncurls, and he moves closer on the couch. The static is washing out from his vision. In its place, guarded gentleness. “What are you doing here? What do you _want,_ Minato?”

Minato struggles. He makes to speak, then closes his mouth. His hand lands on the couch between them, and he squeezes the material. “I. I just – “ He breaks off in a short, frustrated sigh. Then he leans in, wordlessly, and touches their foreheads together.

All the air leaves Kaburagi’s throat. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation. When did his eyes slide closed? He can feel every tiny piece of him, every atom of contact, prickling and warm and beating. His head, bowed, resting against Minato’s. His nose, brushing Minato’s cheek. This is so different from pressing their faceplates together. The heat, the tiny movements, breathing in the same breaths. This is like they are _alive,_ like they are real. 

Kaburagi opens his eyes - Minato's eyes are closed, too, his face twisted up – and fumbles to pull him closer. His hand lands on Minato’s waist and clings, reflexively, fingertips digging into the rough warm fabric of Minato’s suit. Minato makes a broken-off sound at the contact and scrabbles at Kaburagi. His hand, stiff and clammy with anxiety and _miraculous,_ closes around Kaburagi’s bare arm. Short fingernails press trenches into his skin. Kaburagi feels like he’s pitching forward, he’s shutting down, his welding is melting apart. 

Minato breathes, and his waist rises underneath Kaburagi’s touch. When he exhales the air rushes out across Kaburagi’s cheeks. His face is so close, furrowed and radiant. Kaburagi can feel its heat. The hand on his arm isn’t cold anymore, and it’s from the warmth of Kaburagi’s own skin. Kaburagi had never known cyborgs had the programming to _feel_ this much. His heart is racing, sitting here in silence. The joy in his chest crackles and roars, swept up in giddy, disbelieving victory. 

This is so much closer than anything they’ve ever had. This is so much more than any rule he’s broken. This is something he was afraid of, is still so, so afraid of. Wound up like this, with Minato. He hasn’t even _thought_ about it, or tried not to let himself, since Mikey. Imagining something he could never have again would hurt more than any comfort it might have given. So he’d busied himself with his work, with his mission, counting down to the undetermined time his oxyone levels would finally kill him. And when he met Natsume, he’d poured everything he had into her. She was like his new reality, after an impossible dream, and he’d burn that reality or tear it down to give her a better one. He’d been ready never to see Minato again, after the factory. He had snarled at himself that Minato had _made his choice,_ and Kaburagi couldn’t turn back for him. But now, he can hear Minato’s careful, shaking breaths, feel his steady thudding pulse through their foreheads. 

There’s a word for this. Tiny, petrifying, immense. He can’t think it. 

“I don’t know what I want,” Minato says softly. Kaburagi can feel the miniscule beat of every sound on his skin. “But. I want this again, you, if you’ll have me.”

Warmth blossoms out from Kaburagi’s chest, pushing shivers through his muscles and all the stiffness from his limbs. How could he have ever thought it was enough, what they had before? He knocks his head against Minato’s, playfully, so Minato sways and presses himself right back up into Kaburagi’s space. He knows Minato can feel his whisper of laughter. “Are you _courting_ me? Like a Tanker?”

Minato laughs, Minato _giggles,_ to Kaburagi’s delight, and he can feel it, he _can._ “Perhaps I am,” he says. Then, like stepping off a cliff: “I missed you.”

“I,” says Kaburagi. There is a word in his lungs. He can’t begin to form it. “I.”

Minato’s eyes flicker open. Kaburagi doesn’t breathe. He’s so _close._ “Should I leave? Was that too far – “

_“No!”_ Kaburagi’s hand seizes on Minato’s waist, hard enough to hurt. His other hand clenches in the front of Minato’s uniform. Minato stills.

“What do you want, Kaburagi?” he murmurs.

“Just… will you stay?” asks Kaburagi. His voice is just a breath. “Not forever. Just for a while.”

_“…Oh.”_

Kaburagi closes the distance and moves himself into Minato’s side. Minato gasps and halts for a moment, shaking. Kaburagi remembers the first time he’d been bumped into by a Tanker in a corridor. It’s so much. He reaches awkwardly around Minato’s shoulders, mimicking what he’s seen. And Minato folds, like he was manufactured for it, and tucks his face into the gap under Kaburagi’s chin.

Minato’s hair smells dusty and sterile, and Kaburagi rests his nose in it and inhales. How could he have ever believed before that anything smaller than this was enough. How could he.


	2. you won't have to hide away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh they made out a little harder than I thought they would so i changed the rating to t. its 2 am
> 
> thats your teaser! go for it!

Sleep is…strange. A human sensation, for certain, and not one he’s explored. Minato comes awake without knowing the moment it happens. One of Kabu’s broad arms is draped across Minato’s chest, his head thrown back, gently snoring. Minato’s body is one comfortable line of heat against his. As Minato’s processor comes online, his stomach swoops almost painfully, and he buries his sudden smile in his hands.

He remembers, sometime in the dark, waking up to Kabu’s knee jabbing him in the sternum, as Kabu rolled in his sleep and tried apparently to climb inside of Minato. Minato remembers pushing them both, bold with the unreality of sleep, so Kabu rested against the arm of the couch while Minato crawled into his lap. Kabu had sighed once his reaching hands found Minato and pulled him close, not waking up the whole time. He still doesn’t, even now, as Minato shifts, humming into the fabric of Kabu’s shirt. He’s a heavy sleeper. That’s something Minato got to learn about him, today.

Minato takes a lock of Kabu’s hair and strokes it with his thumb. It curls up at the ends, like it’s licking against his fingers, shot through with the gray he remembers as yellow. It’s coarse to the touch, full of tangles, and it leaves a faint smear of grease on Minato’s hand. He’s always wondered why Kabu chose his hair like this, all cowlicks. If he’s known, ever, how much Minato thinks about running his hands through it. He imagines it not looking any different afterward, messy as always, except for the longer parts down his neck that would stick out in spikes. He imagines teasing Kabu to take better care of his avatar. But when he thinks about combing his fingers through Kabu’s hair and smoothing out the tangles, nails scratching lightly on his scalp so Kabu turns his face up to him in pure relaxed bliss, he has to stop himself.

Minato listens to his own breaths. Tries to match them to Kabu’s chest, rising and falling beneath him. Deep and strong and grounding. He wants Kaburagi’s eyes to open, to see that disbelieving smile creep across his face. He wants to touch that smile, feel how real it is under his hands, trace the planes of Kaburagi’s face until he can draw them in the air. But he wants to stay like this, too. And the creases on Kabu’s face smooth out like this, in a way something buried deep in Minato’s core recognizes and reveres.

He listens to Kabu sleep.

He's had nine hours, says the clock in the corner of his UI, to accustom himself to it. Nine hours of this, this impossible thing. Nine hours of the contact, the tingling warmth, Kaburagi's living body touching and moving and breathing against his own. He's had nine hours and his systems haven't overloaded, or shut down, or any of the things he used to think something like this could do to him. It does not get less intense. It does not feel less real. It's nothing like what he'd clung to for so long, nothing like what he'd imagined. He could not imagine the softness or the peace or the tiny raised scar on the edge of Kabu's mouth. And he keeps living, impossibly. Feeling, impossibly. 

Is this what Kabu would tear down the world for?

Minato thinks about going back up to the gray control room. He thinks about sneaking out to feel the precious sensations of cold wind on his face and smoke in his lungs. He thinks about all of this crashing down, Kabu's luck running out, the example Minato knows they are going to make of him. He stops thinking.

The light streaming through the window isn't sunlight, but it is light nonetheless. The more Minato lets his gaze drift around the room, eyes half-closed and squinted where his cheek squishes Kabu's shoulder, the more he sees. The little wilting garden on the windowsill. The way the light flickers. The small stack of dirty dishes by his sink. Minato wants to know it as well as Kabu does. He wants to know which of the plants are new and which are holding onto life, he wants to know Kabu's least favorite dish to have to wash. He wants to know which of Kabu's neighbors are loudest. He wants to know if Kabu gets splinters from the workbench he can see through the door. He wants to touch the things Kaburagi’s touched so many times, the tools, the door handle. There's so much that he's missed. There's so much he has to learn. He'd forgotten in all his longing that Kabu had gone on

Minato doesn't want to go back. He realizes it. He lets himself think it. It _hurts,_ deep and electric. He wants to go on, together.

Kabu snorts awake, and Minato jumps at the sound. It makes Kabu jump too, and he instinctively shoves Minato out of his lap.

Minato flails and throws his arms around Kabu’s neck, almost pulling him off the couch, as Kabu grabs him and yanks them both back upright. Their faces are so close, their foreheads almost touching. Minato feels frozen. He can feel the heat from his face, he can see every line of hazel in Kabu’s eyes. He wants to kiss him on the tip of his nose.

“Good morning,” says Kabu dryly.

Minato bursts out laughing. Kabu’s mouth lifts into a shaky, surprised smirk, like he’s forgotten how to do that, and that just sets Minato laughing even harder. “G-good morning,” he echoes, eventually.

“You sleep well?” Kabu murmurs, that shy incredulous smile back on his face. 

“I did,” Minato says. Kabu makes no move to draw their faces apart. “You?” Minato threads his fingers through the hair at the base of Kabu’s head and squeezes.

A rush of heat floods the skin beneath his hand and Kabu stands abruptly. He gathers up the untouched cups from last night and goes to pour them in the sink, the back of his neck flaming red. The hair down his neck sticks out in spikes. Minato stares, fascinated. “Do you want,” says Kabu, washing out the cups, back still turned. Minato feels like he’s going to melt. “Would you like, uh,” Kabu stammers. “Anything to – anything, um. For breakfast?”

_“What?”_

“I. Have some things. Some food.”

“We don’t need to eat,” Minato grins.

“I _know,”_ growls Kabu, and bends to get some eggs out of his fridge. Minato loves him. Minato loves him so much it must be a glitch.

There was never anything in the system’s direction about this. There was never anything he was taught like what he and Kabu made. Pushing the boundaries of friendship, tender moments behind closed doors. Hands intertwined. Foreheads together. Memories Minato replays and replays. This is something they created, themselves, together. Kabu had learned that Minato’s hands always moved, squeezing and twitching and flapping, and offered his hand or his spikes to hold. Minato learned that Kabu made models and sculptures of anything he could get his hands on, and brought him scrap material from construction plans and strategy meetings. Barely anything in their avatars, when they were out in the game. When they were always watched, when Minato half believed a touch so intense would be enough to break them. The ducking behind corners, back when Kabu had laughed, just to sit and hold hands. Standing out on the command deck together, pressed side to side against the chill, _cold_ and _hot_ and _cold._

It’s a human word, he knows, this impossible feedback loop, this deadly miscalculation, this wonder. What they learned, what they taught each other. It feels round and full and solid when he forms it in his mouth. Love, and love, and love. Minato loves him.

A long time ago, they were out on the command deck, alone. Minato, smoking; Kabu, standing not far apart. That was all. It was enough, then, somehow.

“Hold on,” Kabu had said, and put a hand on Minato’s arm. “I want to try something.”

Minato had looked up, leaned into his touch. “Yes?”

Kabu had drawn Minato’s hand away from his face, taken the smoke between his fingers. “You don’t see anyone, do you?”

“No.” He’d made sure they were alone.

“Okay.” 

And Kabu had cupped Minato’s face in his hand, and closed his eyes, and he had guided their mouths together.

“What was that,” Minato gasped, when Kabu pulled away again, when Minato came back to himself. He was breathless. He’d never been breathless before.

“I don’t – really know,” Kabu had said, suddenly shy. “Something I saw. A, a little while ago. Did you… like it?”

Minato loves him. Kabu loved him back.

It wasn’t long after that moment that the promotion came in and Minato had been swept up, enamored by the system and what it promised, what it meant now that they were at the top of the top. All eyes on them, all the time, the system pushing and pushing and calling and calling. So Minato had left, created that distracted professionalism. He’d poured himself into his work and stopped coming out to the tower. It was always an act; not a good one, but good enough. He was the commander, now, and Kabu was a ranker. Did Minato think his ambition could replace what Kabu had given him? That he could be fulfilled in the same way, or a better one, by the system and his work? Or had he just been afraid?

Kabu is opening his cabinets and pouring tiny piles from every jar he has into the frying pan. One he pauses to smell, then dips a fingertip in and touches it to his tongue. Minato can tell by the way his neck stiffens up that he’s grimacing. Everything about Minato aches. 

He wants to memorize this. Memorize him. He wants this to course through his body instead of oxyone, he wants to solder his circuits in its shape. Not just Kabu, the muscles of his back shifting as he cooks, so sure in his avatar while Minato still has to think through every move. Minato wants the sizzle of the pan, the noises of the city, the sawdust smell melting together with the spices. This moment, repeating, as fragile as ice.

“Hey, Minato,” Kabu calls. His voice is soft. “Come up here, will you?”

Minato unfolds himself from the couch and comes to stand behind Kabu’s shoulder. “Do you want any of this,” Kabu says dolefully, waving at the pan. He’s leaning back into Minato, like it’s something the two of them do. 

Minato rests his chin on Kabu’s shoulder, looking down at the eggs. He wonders how much of them is supposed to be black. “Don’t know.”

Kabu grunts. “Well, you’re the guest, I suppose. After you.”

“You’re the host. I insist.”

“No, I made these for you. So you have to eat them.”

“Oh, like when you used to make those little figures out of garbage? And you wouldn’t let me throw them away?” Minato teases.

Kabu makes a tiny shocked noise, then turns his head to Minato. “You remember – “

And so he doesn’t grab Kabu’s face and press that smile against his cheek and tangle his hands in Kabu’s hair and hold onto him forever, Minato tastes the blackened eggs. They are…indescribable. But one thought still surfaces.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” he blurts.

 _“Really?”_ Kabu’s face furrows, and he gulps a bite. His mouth contorts and he grimaces as he swallows, then erupts into coughing. He gasps in a breath, half doubled over the sink. “These taste like shit! What are you talking about?!”

“Oh,” says Minato. “I’ve never had eggs before.”

Kabu straightens up, and blinks at him, and _laughs._ He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, loud and long and happy until Minato can see the tears in his eyes, and Minato loves him, and loves him, and loves him.

He has to memorize this, for when he’ll never have it again. He has to believe it, that he’ll never have this again. He needs to hold this, take this, keep it, keep this piece of _now_ for when it can’t be now anymore. It’s so big, and so fragile, and it’s going to break to pieces on the floor of the system’s edicts, he knows it. He’s kept his distance so long. Over and over again, and it’s torn his core out every time, but he did it for the safety of them both. He did it because the system is more important than either of them, there’s nothing it can’t see, can’t decide. Minato has chosen the system again and again because, in the end, the system is the only choice. Even if they try to choose each other. Even in some plan as ambitious as Kabu’s. In the end the system will crush them. The only thing they can do in the face of it is try to keep each other safe.

Now…now, Kaburagi, trying to tear the system itself down. This _monolith._ This _bastion of ruthlessness._ And Minato can’t follow him. Or all his efforts would be for… what? He’s been working in the system for years. He’s had no other choice. Kabu is saying it’s able to be destroyed? It has to be impossible. If it is not impossible, then it means he has been pushing Kabu away all this time for no reason. Hurting them both, so deeply and finally, for no reason. It means he could have had something like this.

No. Kabu is rushing in like he always does. A fool’s errand. He was always so fond of those. The best thing Minato could do for him, in the past, was stand in the shadows, protecting him from there. But this… there’s nothing he would be able to do for Kabu, here. There’s no way he would be able to save him. Minato has to try.

“Kabu,“ he starts.

“I know,” Kabu replies.

That catches Minato off guard. “You know?”

“You have to go.” He doesn’t meet Minato’s eyes, staring resolutely down into the sink. “This was… incredible. I… never even thought to hope for it. But. You have to go back. You have – people, and, and system things, responsibilities – waiting. I know.”

Minato tries to make himself move, say something, say anything. Kabu’s whole body is stiff, suddenly shut down, like he’s already convinced himself of what all of this means. Like he’s trying to convince himself Minato never really meant anything, by any of this. Minato wants to reach for him. Minato’s fingers twitch, stiff and unreal, instead.

Kabu takes the silence for agreement and goes on. “I don’t want – to ask too much. Of you. I don’t want to ask you for anything else.” His fist clenches, and he looks over to it, surprised, like he hadn’t expected it to. “You don’t have to make it any, any clearer than you already have. I – I understand.” 

Everything about Kabu is shrinking down, like preparing for a blow. Every part of him Minato can see is saying _no, no, don’t go, don’t leave, please, please stay._ They’ve never been able to lie to each other, not ever, in any of their lives. _Oh, Kabu._

Minato takes one step forward. Two, three. He hesitates a moment, it's still so wonderful and novel, being able to do this, he can't help but dwell on the thought, forbidden before now. He takes Kabu's hand, and revels in the feeling. Skin against skin, heat against heat. Kabu's hands are calloused and rough, with scrapes and scars. Hands with a decade of history. Minato wonders, if he held his hand long enough, could he understand it?

"I don't have to leave." He makes his voice soft. Stares at the way their hands fit together. "Not right now." _Let's do ourselves a kindness, and not think of when I do._

Kabu doesn't speak. His grip goes tight, and Minato appreciates the pressure. If he squeezed hard enough, would either of them be able to let go again? He feels like the lack of it would have him falling apart. But he doesn't, miraculously, when Kabu loosens his grip and twines their fingers together.

"... You don't, do you?" Kabu's voice is nearly a whisper. Minato flicks his eyes from their hands to Kabu's face, and sees the twitch of a smile. The expressions on their avatars has always been so hard to decipher, and Minato had given up trying to understand them ages ago. But Kabu had always been so much easier to understand, and it's hard to misinterpret a smile like that. He lowers his gaze to their hands again, a puzzling heat pooling in his face.

“No. Not for a while." _If I could, I would stay here until we both broke down._ Minato wants to say it, convince Kabu beyond convincing that it's the truth. That this world won't tear them apart again, not in any way that matters. The words dissolve before they reach his throat. 

Kabu looks at him, finally. Still disbelieving, still cautiously soft. "Minato... I." He swallows, scowling at nothing, like he's fighting with the thoughts in his head. "I. Thank... thank you. For this. I can't..." He sighs, and leans forward, and knocks their forehead together. It drives the wind from Minato's lungs. "I... missed. I missed you, you know." 

He'd said it so carefully, like it was something he'd had to guard for so long. Like he still wasn't sure he could trust Minato with it, but he was showing him, nonetheless. It breaks Minato's heart and puts it back together and breaks it again, and without thinking he reaches out, pulls Kabu down and kisses him.

Kabu's mouth opens slightly, and he exhales against Minato. Minato shivers, kissing Kabu's top lip, as Kabu's arms come around him and crush them together. Minato's already lightheaded, colors dancing in his eyes that he never learned the names of, and Kabu's warmth and Kabu's breaths and the smell of the tank and the smell of his soap. He can taste the sour mix of the spices in Kabu’s mouth and he learns right then that you can _taste_ other people. Kabu squeezes him, so hard his arms are shaking, his brow deliciously furrowed in the moments Minato’s eyes slip open, and kisses him hot and fierce and purposeful. This movement, this tingling intent, it overwhelms him with its novelty. How much he finds this another thing he never wants to come back from.

Minato stretches up on his toes to chase Kabu’s mouth. He shifts his feet on the uneven floor, working to keep his balance, as Kabu chuckles softly at him. Minato sways against him and drinks the laughter from his lips, kisses his chin and cheek and the corners of his mouth and anything else he can reach. One of Kabu’s big hands comes up and grips Minato’s face and he nestles into it without thinking. He can feel every scar, every callus, every story, and he wants to press them all against his lips until they’re part of him. Kabu breaks off, face flushing and blotched, and inhales jerkily. His other arm settles around Minato’s waist as he walks them back, Minato still darting up after his lips, and pulls Minato down with him to sit on the couch. Minato climbs into Kabu’s lap, relishing the change in angle, one knee on either side of Kabu’s legs. He plunges both hands into Kabu’s hair and pulls his head back for a kiss, and Kabu _gasps._

Minato smothers the sound with his mouth, and Kabu’s whole body shudders under him, sending electricity up through Minato’s spine. He kisses down Kabu’s jaw, rasping his lips over his stubble, dragging his mouth down Kabu’s throat to breathe in the hollow before his shoulder. Kabu squirms, hands skidding across Minato’s back, making a new, perfect noise every time Minato tugs at his hair. He comes back up to Kabu’s mouth and kisses him there, and Kabu takes his face in both hands. 

It’s a second of overload, _so much, so close,_ and Kabu guides him into sure, determined kisses. Minato holds onto the front of Kabu’s shirt, because it’s all he can do. Minato’s kisses are messy and impulsive, his mouth on as much of Kabu’s face as he can reach, but now Kabu kisses him like a plan. He’s concentrating, Minato can feel it in the rhythm his lips break open and close, communicating some loving thing he cannot do in words. One hand goes to the back of Minato’s head and cradles him close. His other rubs Minato’s back, lighting up paths of nerves Minato didn’t know were even tense. They break apart, gulping in air. Minato tries to follow Kabu’s mouth forward, but Kabu ducks away and rests their foreheads together instead. He holds Minato’s gaze, his face Minato’s world. “Join me,” he breathes, pleading, full of hope. “Come with me. Let’s fight together.”

“I - ” Minato clenches his fists in the fabric of Kabu’s shirt. He closes his eyes, his face twisted. “Kabu, I. I’m so _scared.”_

Kabu exhales, slow and gentle. “I know,” he says. He strokes the shortest part of Minato’s hair, right at the base of his head. “I know.” 

Before Minato can speak Kabu pulls him back into another kiss. It’s soft, careful, and it makes Minato’s throat feel strange and swollen. He drops his arms around Kabu’s shoulders and pulls him close. Kabu kisses his hair.

Minato wants to say, _I love you, I still love you, I promise. I promise._

“I have to go,” he mumbles into Kabu’s skin instead.

Kabu makes a sound that could almost be _oh._

“I have to go,” Minato repeats himself, straightening up in one movement. When he stands Kabu follows him, hand on his elbow. “We have – a boss fight scheduled for later today, we have to go over tactics, troubleshoot. I need to sign off on our plans before noon. You know.”

“I know,” Kabu echoes.

“I’ll miss you,” says Minato desperately. “We’ll see each other again. Soon.” He reaches up and brings their foreheads back together. “Stay safe, will you? For me?”

“I’ll try,” Kabu says, a ghost of a smile on his face. Minato will take it. “Goodb – “

Minato cuts him off with one last kiss. _“No,”_ he says. “Do not. I _will_ see you again.”

“…Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Kabu replies. “I’ll. I’ll see you soon.” 

After the door slides closed, Minato stands on the doorstep with his eyes closed for a while, burning the feeling of Kabu into his heart. He promises, to Kabu, to himself, silently. _I’ll see you soon._ Minato loves him. Kabu loves him back. Some way or another, Minato is coming back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: this is now part of a series, as opposed to the hypothetical third chapter!! the series will MOST PROBABLY have 2 works, and the sequel will have 2 chapters! get ready for postcanon domesticity!!!!!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://riverpersonn.tumblr.com)? and [quincy](https://brdrlnds.tumblr.com) too! 
> 
> if its your thing i also have a massive ongoing undertale fic which i WILL use this opportunity to plug. read [risen up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267280/chapters/25194231) if you like musicals and arson and despite everything, it still being you


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